


if you leave, don't leave now (please don't take my heart away)

by symphony7inAmajor



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, that's? all it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 22:57:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symphony7inAmajor/pseuds/symphony7inAmajor
Summary: "Sometimes, I wish I’d never met you.”“Be careful what you wish for.”





	if you leave, don't leave now (please don't take my heart away)

**Author's Note:**

> this was for a prompt from like. so long ago. SO long, guys. you don't even know. normally i'd link the prompt post, but like. it's gone now. this is the most loosely based of a prompt i have, like, ever written. mostly i just wanted an excuse to write this trope. hm. anyway, the prompt was: "I’m your new neighbour and I got locked out, help!"
> 
> the trope: character wakes up to find out love interest has vanished and they're the only one who remembers them. only this time i did it with the pov of the character who disappears. some variety? yeah.
> 
> EDIT why do i ALWAYS forget to add summaries.... i'm a fool

_ “I was in love with you, you know.” Sharp, mean, with something sad underneath. _

_ “Yeah, well, it’s too late now.” Cruel words hide the shock, leaving silence in their wake. _

_ “Hah, yeah. I guess it is. Sometimes, I wish I’d never met you.” A startled laugh, strained and cold, so unlike the usual sound. There is nothing funny here. _

_ “Be careful what you wish for.” A warning. _

_ A promise. _

Brandon feels weird all morning. 

Maybe it’s the new apartment, or anxiety about his new job. He thinks he had a dream last night, but he can’t remember it. Only the gut-wrenching feeling of falling, a hand reaching for his own and slipping away at the last moment. 

He shakes his head, taking a sip of coffee. It’s still hot enough that it scalds his tongue. He sets the mug down on his desk and starts on some paperwork, his knee bouncing.

“Don’t let Stevie see that,” someone says. Brandon looks up to see a young woman in sweats standing in front of the desk, grinning. She sticks a hand out. “Emma,” she says. “You must be the new guy.” They shake hands.

“Yeah,” Brandon says. “I’m Brandon.” He tilts his head towards the coffee. “What’s Steve got against coffee?” Emma laughs. 

“Nothing really,” she admits. “He says everyone who works at a gym should drink only water, or, like, Gatorade. But,” she leans forward, looking over her shoulder with a conspiratorial expression, “he goes to that coffee shop next door every day when he’s on his break.” Brandon smiles, relieved that at least one of his new coworkers is nice. He’d been worried about… something. “Anyway,” she continues, “I have a pilates class to teach this morning. Stevie’ll be in this afternoon. You good to be at the desk for today?” 

Emma shows him how their system works and he finishes filling out his paperwork before the gym opens. 

It’s a Wednesday and the gym’s not very busy. Some people come in early, a few around lunchtime, and Brandon goes to eat lunch in the back room after they leave. Steve comes in and tells Brandon about what kind of training he’ll be doing when he’s settled in a bit, then disappears into his office. 

Brandon spends the rest of the afternoon at the desk, sipping from his water bottle and twisting back and forth in the chair. 

At five, the people working the night shift come in, so Brandon packs up his things and takes the bus home. He feels unreasonably tired, his eyelids too heavy. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that he hadn’t slept at all last night. He stumbles off the bus with a muttered “thank you,” for the bus driver.

Standing in his kitchen later that night, cooking dinner, Brandon realizes he needs to get more salt from the cupboard.

“Hey,” he says, “can you get me the—“ He stops, closing his mouth so abruptly that his teeth click together almost painfully. There’s an ache building behind his eyes, the beginnings of a headache. He massages his temples, his breathing coming out a little ragged. “Get a hold of yourself, Tanev,” he says quietly.

He gets the salt himself.

For the next week and a half, Brandon spends his days at work and his nights at home. He calls his brothers and his parents, tries the coffee shop next to the gym, and starts teaching fitness classes. Steve becomes Stevie, and he and Emma take Brandon out for drinks on Saturday. 

He still wakes up in the morning feeling like there’s something he’s been missing. He still catches himself talking like he’s expecting someone else to be there, still moves to make space for someone who was never there.

He’s doing okay, though. All things considered. 

Ten days after he started at the gym, Brandon is back on desk duty for a couple hours. He goes to the back, just for a minute, to fill up his water bottle. When he gets back, there’s a guy standing in front of the corkboard Emma’s covered in flyers advertising the classes they have at the gym. Brandon can’t see anything more than that he’s really tall, a backwards baseball cap covering his hair. He doesn’t have any kind of bag with him.

“Hi,” Brandon says. “Can I help you?” The guy flinches and turns around. His face is pale despite the hot sun outside.

“I was just—I was just leaving,” he stammers, but he doesn’t move. He stares at Brandon, looking somehow scared and sad at the same time. Brandon raises an eyebrow. His headache is back, and he really just wants to drink his water in peace. “Sorry,” the guy says softly. He’s still staring at Brandon with that frightened expression. “I didn’t, um. I’m new around here, sorry.” 

“Oh, did you want to sign up for one of our classes?” Brandon figures maybe he’s just nervous, or something. He joins the guy by the board and points out a couple flyers. “I teach these ones,” he says. “They’re more traditional workouts, you know, basic cardio and weights, uh. Emma teaches yoga and pilates classes. If that’s what you’re interested in.” 

“Uh huh.” Brandon looks up. The guy’s watching his face with wide eyes. Brandon sighs. 

“Come on, I can add you to the mailing list. We send out the class schedule every week, so if you see something you like….” Brandon shrugs, settling back in front of his computer. He looks up expectantly. “Name?” 

“Adam,” he says. “Uh, Adam Lowry.” Brandon types his name in, gets him to write down his email address. He notices that Adam’s hands are shaking, just slightly, as he prints his email address on a post-it.

Brandon goes home that night feeling strange. His headache is still pounding behind his eyes, and all he wants is to pop a Tylenol and go to sleep. He reaches into his pocket for his keycard.

It’s not there. 

Brandon drops his head forward, leaning against the glass. He takes a deep breath, trying not to freak out. He checks his other pockets, empties his bag in case the card just ended up below something else, but it’s not _ there. _

“Stupid,” he says, “stupid, stupid, stupid—” He kicks a pebble in vengefully. It clatters off into the shadows with a pitiful clatter. He turns away from the door, staring away from the apartment building and towards the darkening street. There’s someone coming down the path. “Hey,” Brandon calls, “I forgot my keycard this morning, would you mind—” He stops mid sentence, blinking in surprise at _ Adam. _

“You live here?” Adam says. The face he makes after makes it seem like he meant to say something else.

“Yeah, I moved in, like, two weeks ago.” He shifts awkwardly. “Anyway, sorry to be a nuisance, I just—”

“No, never,” Adam says, with a surprising amount of vehemence. “You could never.”

“Um,” says Brandon, “thanks?” Adam looks embarrassed suddenly.

“Sorry,” he mutters. He brushes past Brandon, tapping his keyard against the electronic lock. The light flashes green and Brandon pulls the door open, holding it for Adam before following him through.

It’s awkward again when they both get on the same elevator. Brandon presses the button for his floor and steps back, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. He can feel the weight of Adam’s gaze on him. 

“Do you have your other key?” Adam asks abruptly. 

“Yeah,” Brandon says. 

“Oh,” Adam says. “Well that’s—that’s good.”

“Mhm,” Brandon agrees. Silence. Brandon chances a look over. Adam’s staring at the floor, a little furrow between his eyebrows that some part of Brandon wants to poke. 

The elevator comes to a smooth stop at Brandon’s floor. He looks back at Adam one more time to find him looking out with an expression of sadness so acute that Brandon feels an ache in his chest.

He must’ve heard terrible news recently.

“I’ll see you around?” Brandon says, and he makes it a question. He quirks his lips in a way that could be a smile, if he really tried. Adam’s expression brightens, just a bit.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think you will.”

_ “Come on, give me the flour.” Trying to sound serious, but the tinge of laughter spoils it. _

_ “I think you’d better come take it.” Sometimes you can hear smiles in people’s voices. _

_ “Okay, you asked for it, but don’t—hey, if you get that in my hair, I’ll—don’t, Adam—!” There is no true anger in the shouting that comes after. _

_ “Dude, chill. You know you love me.” It’s easy to hide truth behind a false laugh. _

The next day, Brandon’s off work. He goes down the street to the store to get his groceries that evening. Before he leaves the store, he pauses at the end of one aisle. He looks at his cart, then back up. 

He tosses the chocolate chips in his cart.

Getting home is something of a challenge, even though the grocery store is barely two minutes walking from his apartment. It’s hard when he’s carrying all his bags. 

He’s halfway back when he runs into Adam.

Literally.

Brandon stumbles back, loses his balance, and falls down in what feels like slow motion. Adam catches his arm and pulls him back onto his feet before he can hit the ground.

“Thank you—”

“Sorry, I wasn’t—”

“No, it was—”

Both of them stop. Brandon laughs sheepishly. Adam smiles, small, and ducks his head. 

“Thanks for saving my eggs,” Brandon says after his fascination with Adam’s blush has worn off somewhat.

“Any time,” Adam says. “Hey, uh, do you need any help?” He gestures at Brandon’s bags, two of which are lying on the sidewalk.

“Oh, no,” Brandon says, “I couldn’t, not if—”

“Hey, I’m not busy,” Adam says. “I promise it’s no problem.” He smiles carefully. Brandon sees the hope in his eyes. Normally, he might be weirded out that a guy he met yesterday is offering to help carry his groceries to his home, but. For some reason, he can’t think of a single reason to be scared of Adam, even though the guy is half a foot taller than him and probably has at least thirty pounds on him. 

“Okay,” Brandon says. “Thank you.” Adam picks up the bags that fell and takes another from Brandon’s hands before turning and heading back to their building. Brandon hesitates for a moment, studying the set of his shoulders, the tension in his back. Adam looks over his shoulder.

“You coming?” he asks. Brandon follows him.

This time, the elevator ride is silent, but not uncomfortable. Brandon fumbles for his keys a little bit, conscious of Adam leaning against the wall beside him. When he gets the door open, he wonders for a second if Adam will be bothered by the fact that Brandon obviously hadn’t been expecting guests when he went out.

Instead, Adam just breezes inside, setting his bags on the kitchen counters and pulling things out. Brandon puts his own bags down, then realizes something strange.

“How do you know where I keep all my stuff?” Adam freezes from where he was putting the baking soda into a cupboard. 

“Um,” Adam says, “you have a, uh, very logical kitchen?” Brandon frowns at him for a beat. He knows Adam isn’t telling him the truth, but he decides not to press. He finishes putting away his groceries. Adam’s done faster. He’s watching Brandon when he turns around, an unreadable expression on his face. Brandon drums his fingers on the counter.

“So,” Brandon says. He bites his lip, not sure how to continue. He doesn’t miss the way Adam’s eyes fall to his mouth before snapping back up.

“I can, uh. I’ll head out, I guess,” Adam says. He shifts towards the door, but not like he really means to leave.

“I was going to make cookies,” Brandon blurts. “If, you, you know. Wanted to stay.” Brandon’s not sure what, exactly, possessed him to say that. Adam’s eyes are wide, too bright.

“Yeah,” Adam says. “I’d—I’d like that a lot.” He clears his throat. “Can I use your bathroom first?” Brandon nods before realizing that Adam can’t see him because he’s staring at the floor. 

“It’s just down the hall,” Brandon says. He wants to ask, but he also really, really doesn’t know if he wants to know. He busies himself by putting out the ingredients and things until Adam comes back. It’s only when he’s holding onto his measuring cups that he realizes he doesn’t know why he got all this _ stuff. _ It seems like most of it has just been accumulating in his kitchen without him even noticing. 

Adam’s return distracts him from thinking about that too hard. 

“Chocolate chip?” Adam asks. 

“Yeah,” Brandon says slowly. He’s not sure how Adam guessed; the chocolate chips are still in the cupboard. 

“Cool,” Adam says. He plucks the flour out of Brandon’s hands. “I’ll do the dry ingredients?” He says it like a question, but he’s already measuring out flour.

“Uh huh,” Brandon says. There’s definitely something strange about this guy. Brandon shakes himself mentally and goes to get the eggs.

There’s something… off about the whole thing. It’s weird because of how _ not _ weird it is. Every time Brandon turns around, a request on his lips, Adam’s already holding out whatever it is Brandon was about to ask for. And it’s not just him doing it either; Brandon finds himself sliding a measuring cup down the countertop into Adam’s waiting hands. 

By the time the cookies are in the oven, Brandon feels—something. Probably the best word for how he feels right now is _ discombobulated, _ which is not a word he ever thinks of applying to himself. Or thinks of, period. It’s, like, he feels _ weird _, but also settled, and it’s that settled feeling, of feeling like everything is how it should be, that unsettles him even more. 

Brandon has a headache.

“Hey,” Adam says, and Brandon snaps out of his funk. Adam is leaning against the counter, his hands still dusted with flour. He has a smudge of white on his forehead, like he wiped a hand over his face by mistake. Brandon fists his hands by his sides so he doesn’t go over there and wipe it off with a thumb. “Can we talk?” 

Brandon doesn’t know this guy, but the serious look on his face just—it feels out of place. 

_ I want to see him smile, _Brandon thinks, an unfamiliar desperation to the thought.

“Yeah, just,” Brandon clears his throat, “go on, I’ll be a second.” 

Adam goes to sit in the living room. Brandon, meanwhile leans over the sink and squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to throw up.

He pulls two of his mugs out of the cupboard, because his mother raised him to always be hospitable to his guests. He makes two cups of hot chocolate and carries them into the living room. 

Adam is chewing on a fingernail. 

_ Stop doing that, _ Brandon doesn’t say, _ it’ll hurt later. _

“I made hot chocolate,” Brandon says instead, pressing one of the mugs into Adam’s hands.

He sits on the other end couch, half-turned to face Adam. 

“Milk or water,” Adam says. He ducks his head to breathe in the steam. 

“Milk,” Brandon says after a beat of hesitation.

“You make it with water usually, don’t you.” It’s not a question. 

“I—”

“I haven’t told you the truth,” Adam blurts. The serious look is gone. Instead, he has the same frightened expression that Brandon saw in the gym. “I made a mistake, and I’m paying for it. I’ve _ been _ paying for it.” 

“What are you talking about?” Brandon sets his mug down carefully. His hands feel unsteady. Adam shifts closer and takes his hands. Anything Brandon might’ve said dies in his throat at the look Adam gives him, desperation and fear and loneliness and longing all wrapped up in his storm-blue eyes.

“You know me,” Adam says, “you knew me.” Brandon can feel Adam’s heart racing at the pulse point in his wrist. “I—” He breaks off, looking down at their joined hands. Something about the sight seems to shake him. “I loved you,” Adam says, but the tone says that he’s said that before. That he’s said it before, and it didn’t go well. 

Brandon doesn’t let go of his hands. 

“You….” He trails off. What can he say to that?

“I still love you,” Adam says, and he sounds more sure of himself now. “You told me—you told me I should be careful what I wish for, and I didn’t mean it but it happened anyway and now I don’t have you anymore even though you’re right here and it’s not—” Adam takes a deep breath. “It’s not right,” he says quietly.

“Adam,” Brandon says helplessly, “I don’t even know you.”

“Don’t you?” Adam says fiercely, and he locks eyes with Brandon. And that’s what it feels like—their eyes meet and Brandon couldn’t look away if he wanted to.

“I….” Brandon swallows hard. His mouth feels like it’s full of dust. “I don’t….” 

“Your name is Brandon Tanev,” Adam says, and his eyes are bright-hot and searching. “You quit playing hockey when you were fourteen because you were too small and teams didn’t want you. You started playing again in college, and you—_ this _ you, you hurt your knee so bad that you couldn’t compete anymore. But—”

“No,” Brandon mumbles, because he _ doesn’t want to hear it, _but he can’t look away from Adam. 

“—the you I know, the you I fell in love with,” his voice cracks, “you signed with the Winnipeg Jets out of college. That’s where you met _ me.” _

“Stop it,” Brandon says hoarsely. He’s dimly aware of tears on his cheeks. 

“You were twenty-six when I first kissed you,” Adam barrels on like Brandon said nothing. Brandon is twenty-seven now and he _ does not want to know, _but. “You were twenty-seven when you signed with the Pittsburgh Penguins,” Adam says, and Brandon notices that he’s crying, too. “And you were twenty-seven when you told me it was too late to be in love with you.”

Brandon feels like his heart just stopped. 

“I,” Brandon says, and he can’t catch his breath. “That wasn’t.” 

But Adam isn’t finished. 

“I was twenty-six,” he says, barely a whisper now, “when I told you I wished I’d never met you.” Brandon feels cold radiating from the pit of his stomach, up into his chest. “I was twenty-six when I woke up the next morning and,” he swallows hard, “and nobody knew you, and you were _ gone.” _

Brandon’s head _ hurts. _

“I didn’t mean it,” Adam says, “I promise, I didn’t mean it, I just—“

“We both said things we didn’t mean,” Brandon says. His voice sounds far away.

“Brandon,” Adam says, a pleading note in his voice. 

Brandon twists his hands so their fingers are laced together. His vision blurs. 

“I think,” Brandon says, “that I am going to pass out.” 

The last thing he sees before his vision goes dark is Adam reaching out to catch him. 

_ “Um. What was that for?” The hesitation of wanting the truth, but being afraid to hear it. _

_ “I dunno, you just. You’re, you know.” Telling the truth is hard, isn’t it? _

_ “No, I don’t. Tell me.” Say it. Tell him. _

_ “You scored a hat trick. And, um. You’re really hot.” Wrong answer. _

Brandon wakes up to someone pounding at his door. He sits up, feeling a little off-balance. He just had the strangest dream… and he was sleeping on the couch, for some reason. That’ll do it, Brandon thinks as he gets up stiffly. 

He massages the back of his neck and works out a few kinks in his back on the way to the door. 

“I’m coming,” he yells. The knocker has not let up once. “Ugh,” he says to himself, rubbing his eyes. 

He opens the door.

“Brandon,” Adam breathes. 

“Adam?” Brandon squawks. 

He moves back automatically, feeling wrong-footed. Adam steps inside and closes the door behind him. Adam isn’t looking at him like the last time they spoke Brandon had told him it was too late to be in love with him, followed by Adam telling him he wished they’d never met. Adam’s looking at him like he’s the last oasis in the desert, and Brandon doesn’t know _ why. _

Adam’s hands catch him by the shoulders. 

“Tell me it’s not too late,” he says desperately. “Tell me you didn’t mean it.” Brandon stares at him. “I didn’t mean what I said,” Adam blurts. “Meeting you was one of the best things that ever happened to me, and I still love you, and I lied when I first kissed you because I was in love with you then, and I—”

“Adam,” Brandon says crisply, “shut up.”

Adam’s mouth snaps shut so fast that his teeth click together. He’s pale, like he’s only now realizing that Brandon might tell him _ no, _ tell him to leave. 

Can’t have him thinking _ that. _

“It’s not too late,” Brandon says, “it could never be too late, not for you, not _ ever, _ Adam, I love you too, just—”

Brandon cuts himself off to yank Adam down to kiss him. 

For a minute, he loses himself in the feeling of Adam against him, his mouth and his hands and his hair. He has to pull away eventually, but Adam leans down to bump their foreheads together.

“Hey,” Adam says, quiet, “promise me something?” 

“Anything.”

“Let’s never lie to each other again, okay?” 

There’s an unfamiliar hurt in Adam’s eyes, but Brandon can see it fading. He takes Adam’s hand in his. 

“I promise,” Brandon says, and when Adam kisses him again, arms tight around him, Brandon has no doubt that he’s exactly where he belongs.   


**Author's Note:**

> me: is not over brandon signing  
also me: let's just write about it forever
> 
> [tumblr](https://symphony7inamajor.tumblr.com)


End file.
